"All I know is this: nobody's very big in the first place, and it looks to me like everybody spends their whole life tearing everybody else down." ― Ken Kesey, One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest

...

The Case of The Man Who Was Wanted I

Sherlock rushed into the Ceremony Room, following Hermione, who in turn followed Ron Weasley in his floating chair.

They were not the first people inside. A group of aurors in scarlet robes had already gathered at the periphery, and stood gaping at the center of the room. Their wands were pointed, but it appeared they did not know which spell to cast.

What Sherlock saw as he entered the room made all the breath vanish out of his lungs. He gasped and choked, and finally managed to cry out: "He's dead!"

Hermione whirled around, her eyes wide in horror. Did she not see?

His wizard, Harry, hung from the ceiling, suspended; limbs, impossibly still. To Sherlock, it looked like a hanging, but he saw no rope.

"There…" Sherlock managed, despite the vanishing air in his lungs. He pointed.

Hermione followed his finger. Then, she screamed.

"They've got him! Ron, please, do something!" She grasped the back of Weasely's chair.

Ron lifted his wand, and Hermione did too, and they both recast their patronus charms. The room was so deathly frigid, so, so cold, that their breath made little white puffs as they pronounced the incantation. The patronuses that appeared were much smaller, duller, than the versions Ron and Hermione managed in the corridors. The otter and dog bounded towards Harry, and dispersed.

Sherlock did not understand. What was the point of the patronus, when Harry was…

It was unthinkable. He sank to his knees. They were too late. Maybe they missed it by an hour, or maybe it was just a few seconds. But the end results were the same.

Ron turned to the other aurors. "Help me! Drive them off of him!"

"Weasley, what are you doing here? I thought you were-" One of the aurors started to say. Stupidly.

"There's no time! Help me!" Ron was desperate.

Drive them off, Sherlock mouthed. His brain finally made the correct deduction. He could not see what was holding Harry up, because it was invisible to his eyes. Dementors.

The aurors, which Ron was still shouting at, were looking between themselves, waiting for one of them to take charge. Bloody idiots. Sherlock snarled. Would he make the situation worse if he began berating them as well?

Then, behind Sherlock's back, where the door to the Ceremony Room was still open, came two more figures. An older man with white hair and a very wrinkled face, followed by a teenage boy. The boy had maroon hair. As Sherlock glanced at the boy, his hair began changing into a slick, oil-spill purple.

"What's going on here?" The older man barked, with an obvious air of authority.

"Estimius!" Ron yelled, "You've got to help! The dementors got him! We've got to drive them off!"

The old man, who Sherlock realized now must have been Head Auror Estimius Toadle, strode right past him, and joined Ron.

"That Potter up there?" Toadle asked. Sherlock remembered with a pang what Harry and Hermione had told him about dementors. After Harry escaped Azkaban, the dementors were supposed to kiss him on sight. Is that what was happening? Is that why the Head Auror did not make immediate movement to rescue Harry?

"Yes, listen! You've got to call them off! I've got evidence!" Ron was saying hurriedly, glancing between limp Harry and Toadle, "They poisoned me so I couldn't give it!"

Toadle only nodded, and turned to the rest of the aurors.

"On three! All wands! Cast your patronus! One, two, three!" Toadle yelled.

All the aurors obeyed the old man. Sherlock saw that even the boy raised his wand and cast his. The boy's patronus was shaped like a wolf.

The pack of mismatched animals made of pure white light pranced, swam, flew, and galloped towards Harry.

"One more time! With feeling! They're eating him alive up there! One, two, three!"

Another wave of white light. Then, Sherlock saw Harry begin to descend.

Hermione was quick with a cushioning charm, and the body thudded softly to the floor.

Hermione was tearing toward the fallen wizard, with Sherlock hot on her heels. Their footsteps echoed on the stone floor. Sherlock noted the three chairs which were arranged in the center. Two were occupied by slumped figures, and one, he recognized. Laura Baskey. Sherlock had no observations to make at the moment. No deductions.

The rest of the aurors were busy shooting off more patronuses. They must have been trying to corral the dementors, trying to force them out of the room.

The closer he got to Harry, the more Sherlock wanted to turn and run. He had seen dead bodies before. And unquestionably, the body in front of him was dead. The thin face was pale, and still, and the hands that had nearly driven Sherlock insane by want of holding them, were frail and lifeless.

Sherlock stood a few paces back, staring at the body. What could he do? His mind was frozen. His natural inclination was to swoop over a body like a vulture, and begin cataloging the various tell-tale signs of death. He found he could not take one step closer. Because this wasn't just a body, was it?

Toadle and Weasley were not far behind them. The aged Head Auror knelt to the floor, and began touching Harry's wrist and his neck.

"No pulse." Toadle said, then pointed his wand at Harry's chest. Sherlock saw the chest give a jerk: up and down.

"No pulse, again." Toadle said, and recast the spell.

The chest where Sherlock had once laid his head and listened to the heartbeat rose and fell. Once.

"This doesn't make any sense!" Hermione wailed, "He shouldn't be dead after a dementor attack! They don't kill!"

"No pulse. One more time." Toadle said, and recast the spell.

The chest rose and fell, and then, Sherlock's eyes burned as he stared, the chest rose and fell again. Rose and fell. Sherlock wanted to stare at the timid movement forever.

"Got him." Toadle said. "Now, whether he still has his soul, is an entirely different matter."

"But, sir, that doesn't-" Ron started.

"It's not unheard of, Ron, for dementors to attempt a kill on their victims." Toadle continued casting spells on Harry. Sherlock thought they must be intended to stabilize or heal him. "Not unheard of, but, I should say, still extremely uncommon."

Hermione and Ron stared down at Harry. No doubt, they were wondering just like Sherlock, what would happen when Harry woke up.

Catching his breath, the elderly auror turned to Ron.

"Evidence, eh?" Toadle looked at Ron. Ron nodded. "Right. Shemkins! Holdorf! Take Potter to St. Mungo's. Secure branch. Instruct the Healers to treat for dementor attack, and do a thorough exam for soul-related maladies. Post a guard. He slipped by us once, let's not give him a second chance… Peterson! You take a look at those two in the chairs!"

Holdorf and Shermkins broke off from the main group of aurors that were still casting patronuses to control the unseen threat of dementors.

The two aurors came to stand next to them, and pointed their wands at Harry. Sherlock pulled in a sharp breath. He did not trust these two aurors with Harry's wellbeing.

"Weasley!" Toadle barked, "You go with them. St. Mungo's is probably just now finding you missing. Better head them off before they start making a fuss."

"Yes, sir." Ron answered. Sherlock felt a measure of comfort. Ron Weasley was at least invested in Harry's wellbeing. He ought to make sure no harm came to him.

With that Toadle strode off to join the group of aurors who were still attempting to control the dementors by means of cast patronuses.

"Anybody want to illuminate for me why these guards left their posts at Azkaban?" Toadle began barking at the junior aurors. Sherlock turned his attention back to Harry.

Holdorf and Shemkins, two rather unextraordinary looking men, summoned a stretcher. They floated Harry's body into it. Then, they cast a spell to bind Harry's arms and legs with cords of rope.

"Is that really necessary?" He cut in.

"Absolutely, given who it is." Holdorf answered automatically. Then the auror gave Sherlock a long double look. No doubt, the auror was wondering just who the hell Sherlock might be.

Ron, meanwhile, floated his chair in Sherlock's direction.

"You know how I said I had evidence for Toadle?" Ron whispered to Sherlock.

Sherlock nodded mutely, bending over to hear what Weasley said. Ron Weasley paused, like he wasn't quite sure how to word what he wanted to say.

"I really hope you have some evidence." Ron finally whispered.

Sherlock looked at him.

"I can probably throw something together." Sherlock said, looking at the unconscious Laura Baskey, who was being examined by an auror named Peterson. With a start she woke up, and began to cough. Sherlock heard her say, weakly: "Where am I?"

Yes, Sherlock thought, he believed he could throw something together. But whether it would be enough to convince the wizarding courts, he had no idea.

A day and a half later, Sherlock paced the confines of his flat like a newly caught tiger that was very much unimpressed with the dimensions of his cage.

Hermione was supposed to have made her call hours ago. She had promised, sworn, to keep Sherlock in the loop of what was going on.

Where was she?

Sherlock huffed and threw himself on the sofa.

Laura Baskey came padding out of the spare bedroom. She had either been imprisoned there, or given comfortable accommodations while she awaited her key role in a wizarding trial. The interpretation varied wildly depending on who you asked.

She made her way to the kitchen and started brewing tea.

"I still can't believe it's real." She said in hushed tones.

Sherlock grunted.

"I mean, a whole world of wizards! Right here in London… who could have thought it?" She continued.

Sherlock made a non-committal reply, and sank deeper into the couch. Yes, yes, it was all rather astounding. Now if only one of those astounding witches would get off her skinny behind and come tell Sherlock what was going on!

"We might as well rehearse your story again." Sherlock rolled over and said to Laura.

Her eyes widened, and she looked down at her tea like she had very much regretted leaving the safety of her room to get it.

"But we've been at it all night! Surely, we've gone through it enough now…" she started, but Sherlock had already sprang off the couch and was now pacing.

"When did you first see the Grimoires?" Sherlock asked.

Laura sighed, hunched in on herself, and resolved to once again sit through the faux-interrogation.

Just then, a crack sounded in the middle of Sherlock's flat.

"Gah!" Laura screeched and spilled some of her tea down on her lap.

"Finally!" Sherlock thundered, turning to Hermione. But then his blood ran cold. The witch's face was blotted, red and puffy.

She had been crying.

Oh god, what was it now?

Did Harry die after all? Did he wake up with no soul? Did he wake up, normal and cheerful, but then immediately got attacked by another stray dementor that's come to finish the job?

"What is it?" Sherlock choked out.

Hermione took a few steps, and to Sherlock's horror threw her arms around him and buried her damp face into the breast of his collared shirt.

Sherlock squashed the impulse to push the witch away in disgust, and instead, awkwardly patted her back.

"Harry won't wake up! The Healers say they can't do much for him. He's got to wake up by himself. Otherwise…" she said through a thick voice

"He'll wake up." Sherlock said out loud while his heart lodged itself into his throat.

"That's not all." Hermione said, then took a measured step back, and sort of gave Sherlock a little pat-pat on his shoulder like she was sorry about the leaving the various fluids that gushed from her face, on his shirt.

"They've scheduled a hearing." Hermione announced. "And Harry might not wake up in time."

"I suppose they'll reschedule if Harry doesn't wake up by…" Sherlock started.

"No, they won't. It's not a real trial. It is just a hearing to re-examine the evidence. The verdict can't be overturned, so they don't need Harry, or so the Wizengamot says. And if we don't… if it doesn't go our way then, then…"

Hermione was not able to say the words, but Sherlock knew them anyway. If not, then the dementors will finish the job.

Sherlock sat down on his sofa on shaking legs, and Hermione plopped down next to him.

"How long do we have?" Sherlock asked in a hollow voice.

"They've set it for September 5th." She said.

"But that's less than three days from now?!" Sherlock couldn't believe it.

Hermione nodded her head rapidly.

"Then we have a lot of work to do." Sherlock said.

The hearing was carried out without Sherlock. His presence had been neither required, nor requested. He stood by the heavy door, behind which his heart's fate was being decided, and leaned against a wall, letting the heavy stones of the corridor support his weight.

Hermione was there with him, and they were both silent and miserable.

There were only two witnesses: Laura Baskey and Ted Lupin. Sherlock was not feeling confident. If only the wizards would let him inside as well!

Ron Weasely was there to present the case. As far as Sherlock knew, Weasley was not a barrister, nor had he ever been trained as one. From what Sherlock gathered, the wizarding world didn't even have lawyers.

Sherlock, when he had been sick with grief, and heartbroken after the fight he instigated with Harry that drove the wizard away, had made a plan: as Sherlock saw it, all he had to do was solve Harry's case. Sherlock had been sure that if he managed to accomplish this, the wizard would fall right back into his arms. But now, so much more rested on the case. It wasn't just Sherlock's heart. It was somebody's life. Harry's life.

Every moment of staring at the heavy doors, closed in his face, was agony. Sherlock pushed himself off the wall and snapped.

"I can't wait anymore! Let's make ourselves useful." He barked at Hermione.

She looked up at him with a drawn face.

"What do you mean?" Hermione asked.

"Let's go to the Department of Mysteries again. Maybe there is something we missed…"

"But that's…" Hermione started, no doubt intent on informing Sherlock that they couldn't simply stroll in there, but the witch caught Sherlock's face, and simply nodded. "Follow me."

By the time that Sherlock had felt their business concluded in the Department of Mysteries, and he and Hermione made their way back to the corridor where the hearing was taking place, the ordeal must have concluded. Wizards and witches, wearing plum cloth robes of a uniform cut were spilling out of the open door. Sherlock sped up, Hermione behind him.

They found Ron Weasley, still floating-chair-bound, Ted Lupin, and Laura Baskey, standing aside.

"Ron! What happened?" Hermione jogged to a stop next to him.

"We've got our trial but…" Ron started, then looked around. "Let's go to your place. I'll fill you in."

Sherlock accompanied the two adult wizards. They were technically not allowed to side-long apparate muggles. So, because of Sherlock and Laura Baskey, the little group made their circuitous way out of the Ministry through the main entrance. They were silent.

Sherlock thought all the while about his visit to the Department of Mysteries.

An employee wearing a gray robe had taken them to the Ceremony Room. They had not been allowed access to a single other room, which Sherlock did not like. Indeed, the only reason they were allowed so far was because of Hermione's former occupation as an Unspeakable. The squat witch wearing gray robes, who Sherlock had remembered was named Blackbriar, led them, and chatted with Hermione the whole way.

Sherlock found the foray had proved fruitful. But not because of the Ceremony Room. Because of Unspeakable Blackbriar.

He wondered if his careful insinuations and allegations might turn into something. The woman might brush him off. She might not have understood. She might not be so worried about her reputation. Or, she might just help them. Only time would tell.

Sherlock had noted that so far he had not heard the teenaged Ted Lupin say very much. Back in Hermione's flat, the boy was making up for lost time. He was practically bouncing off the walls and couldn't shut up. Sherlock listened to the tirade.

"So this whole time? This whole time, he might have been innocent?" The boy whirled around on Ron Weasley.

"That's what we thought from the beginning…" Ron started.

"Then why didn't you fight it! Why didn't you do something!" Ted was working himself into a rage. Sherlock sat on Hermione's upholstered couches, neat to a fault, and watched the show. He almost felt bad for Ron and Hermione. Laura Baskey sat next to him. Her eyes were wide, and Sherlock could tell the woman had no idea why she was here, or what she was supposed to do.

"Ted, we did try, but there was only so much-" Hermione started, attempting to put a calming hand out to Ted.

"You obviously didn't try hard enough! It's been over a decade! You could have-" Ted was not so easily calmed.

"Ted! We did try but there was so much against him, and then he ran out, and-" Ron was raising his voice now, too.

"Is anyone going to fill me in on what happened at the Hearing?" Sherlock cut in.

Ron shot Ted a warning glance.

"Yes. Alright. The Hearing. Well… It was a bit odd, to be completely frank. It went our way, but…"

"Diggory practically decided the whole matter." Ted butted in.

"Diggory?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "The Minister of Magic? What did he have to do with it?"

"Well, that's just it. We don't know. He's got a dog in the fight, that much was obvious. But why he should care is absolutely lost on me." Ron answered.

"Ron, why don't you start from the beginning. What happened?" Hermione asked.

"Alright then, from the beginning." Ron agreed.

And so, Ron recounted beat by beat the events of the hearing. To summarize the important bits, which is what Sherlock did for himself, the Wizengamot was initially unconvinced that the occurrences of the night of August 31st of this year, in any way sheds doubt on Harry Potter's initial conviction of '99.

Then, after both Laura and Ted presented their side of the story, Minister Diggory started going off about how important it was, in this very sensitive case, to be absolutely sure, to be as confident as stone, that a mistake was not made. What did it cost the Wizengamot to open up the matter formally and re-examine the case? A few days of work? And what would it cost Potter?

A few older members agreed with Diggory, but the majority was yet to be won over. Then, the Minister of Magic pulled out the trump card. He would like it, he said, very much, to know the whole story of what happened in the Ceremony Room. And since Henry Tonks was presumed to be missing or dead, and both the night guard and Laura were unconscious during the incident, that only leaves Harry Potter as one who might shed some light on the matter. If nothing else, the Minister added, he would like to hear from Potter about what had transpired. And if the Wizengamot did not vote to re-open the case, they may never hear from Potter again, as the way things currently stand, Potter would be kissed as soon as he woke up.

Perhaps pulled along by their own curiosity, the Wizengamot voted to re-open the case. A few dissenters argued that this was a pointless exercise, since there was such a high likelihood that when Potter did wake up, he would be soulless already, and thus less than helpful in illuminating any kind of mystery. The Minister then argued that there was not much to lose, then. If Potter was already soulless, then their job was done for them, so to speak. And if he wasn't, they ought to hear him out.

"But, then, when is the trial?" Hermione asked.

Ron sighed. "Whenever Harry wakes up." He answered simply.

Hermione thought about this for a beat. "That's actually good. We have time. We might have months!"

Sherlock was the last person you would be tempted to call 'superstitious.' Yet even he cringed inwardly when Hermione said those words.

It turned out they did not have a lot of time. Indeed, they had mere days before Dean Thomas, who had been apparently spying (in Hernione's words, 'paying special attention,') on the secure wing of St. Mungo's rang Hermione to let her know that Harry must have woken up, since the aurors who pulled shifts by the entrance seemed particularly animated.

Ron Weasley, who had not yet been reinstated to full duty due to lingering effects on his health, was notified that if he still intended to be the counselor to the accused (that is, Harry), he ought to know that the trial would be set for September 13th.

The news was good, great actually. There would be no point to schedule a trial if Harry had woken up as a soulless husk. So, not only was he alive, and conscious, he was also presumably coherent.

The bad news was of course that they now had very little time remaining to prepare. But the good, in everyone's opinion, far outweighed the bad.

Ted Lupin had been returned to Hogwarts, amongst many protests and arguments that he was needed in London.

"We'll get you for the trial, Ted, don't worry." Ron had tried to re-assure the young wizard, but the boy was having none of it. Unfortunately for him, the boy's fate was decided by the combined weight of all the adults in his life, including his formidable grandmother.

Laura Baskey, too, was given leave, as long as she stayed within London and kept her mobile on.

So, it was only Sherlock, Ron and Hermione that were present to receive the news. Sherlock, back in Hermione's townhouse, sat by as the wizard and witch worried themselves sick over how they should approach the trial and what they ought to present. Sherlock wished he could help more. He wished he could see Unspeakable Blackbriar again. But he knew that in that matter a delicate touch was better than a forceful one. Blackbriar would either come around or she wouldn't.

None of them, not even Ron, had yet to actually see Harry. This was something of an obstacle.

"The first thing that we have to do, of course, is to register myself as his counselor. That's alright with you Ron, isn't it?" Hermione asked.

"Yes, more than alright."

"Good. Then we absolutely need to see Harry. We need to get his story." Hermione continued.

"I've asked all the aurors. They're not letting anyone near him yet, much less his counselors. I don't know. I suppose they want to get him talking first, get their story, before we get a chance." Ron answered wearily.

"It's ridiculous!" Hermione huffed.

"They're moving fast, aren't they? Is this normal for wizards? Our own judicial matters are never scheduled so rapidly…" Sherlock commented.

Hermione opened her mouth to comment, but did not have a chance. Just then, Ron's auror's watch issued a soft chirpy sound.

Ron looked down at it for several seconds.

"Toadle. Wonder what he wants." Ron explained.

"Go and see! Maybe…" Hermione said hopefully. She didn't have to finish. All three, Sherlock, Hermione and Ron were thinking the same thing. Maybe they'll actually let them see Harry.

Ron was gone for what seemed like hours, but was more likely only forty five minutes. Hermione paced her flat, with Sherlock sitting and staring from the couch, as she recited all the facts of the case they knew so far.

"There are a lot of holes." She finished.

Sherlock nodded his agreement, but he also knew just the person to fill some of the holes. Now if only they could see him!

Ron returned, his floating wheel chair creaking ominously after apparation.

"Hurry!" He only said, and Sherlock and Hermione knew at once what it meant.

The last thing Harry remembered is the scabby, skeletal hands of a dementor around his throat.

The hooded monsters had closed in all around him in an instant. And he did not have his wand. He could not even manage to help Laura Baskey, nor the unfortunate young security guard, before the dementors had him surrounded, nowhere to run, nothing to fight with.

Harry had pretty much accepted his fate, at that moment. Henry Tonks had not pulled off his ritual, and that was good. Harry only felt sorry that Laura and the young wizard might come to harm. He only felt guilt that Hermione and Sherlock would never know what really happened.

When the dementor lifted its hood and began to pull at the roots of Harry's soul, he thought it was an odd thing how familiar this extremely unpleasant sensation was to him now. He had divorced, partly, from his soul how many times now? This would number three, he reminded himself.

He would return once again, to the world of half-life and shadows, and he had only just become fully himself. He had only just found his heart beating in his chest a few weeks ago. What a shame.

The dementor sucked, and as it did, Harry felt his feet lift from the floor. All his happy memories, few as they were, were fleeing from him. At last, his soul, and he knew exactly when the dementor had started to tug at the very essence of his being.

Hold on, a tiny voice in Harry's chest whispered, are you really going to let this happen?

There wasn't much of a choice, was there?

Of course, there's always a choice. Don't let that thing have it. You've only just won it back fully.

Harry resisted. He could not say how he did so, but the knowledge was quite plain to his body. It was like a muscle, that he has had occasion to exercise, and which now he could make himself flex. No, Harry struggled, I'm not letting go.

The dementor's head tilted to the side, like it was mildly befuddled. Harry felt it's next shuddering attack, and instead if his soul coming loose, his body began to weaken.

Oh, he thought, I see. It was his soul or his body.

He made the choice. Let it kill him, then, but he would keep the essence of his being intact. Let the demeter suck out his life force instead.

There was a hubbub of open doors and shouting below him now, but Harry could not hear. The world was wooshing away from him, like the green grass when he was taking off on his broom, and the Quidditch pitch became immensely small beneath his feet, and cold wind whipped at his hair…

And then he woke up.

Thinking he was dead, because the last thing he remembered was the very sure knowledge that he would, in fact, die, Harry was surprised to see the four walls of a St. Mungo's hospital room.

If he were being honest, he preferred the ghostly King Cross station, leached of all colour, where he had spoken with Dumbledore for the last time.

But this place was not like that at all. This room felt… real.

He shifted, and tried to sit up.

A voice came from his left, and he saw an unfamiliar man get up and begin talking.

Harry could not quite make out the words. Also, he could not sit up. Taking stock of his situation, he found he could not sit up because there were bindings on his arms, which tied him securely to the bed.

With a very late, dawning realization, Harry put it together that he was actually not dead, after all. And if he was not dead, and also tied to a bed in St. Mungo's, then…

The unfamiliar man loomed over Harry. Some of the man's words became coherent.

"-will need the full story. Head Auror is in his way-"

Harry nodded mutely and swallowed past a dry throat. His decade on the run was over. He was caught, finally.

The pit of Sherlock's stomach was opening, opening, and he was sure he would fall into himself. They were in Harry's holding cell, the aurors keeping watch just outside, and Sherlock had really thought for some reason that seeing his wizard again, alive and breathing, would be a joyous occasion.

His heart did give a leap to see Harry's face animated, his eyes alive and shining with a smile as he saw Hermione and Ron file into his cell. Then, a quick arch of the eyebrow when he saw Sherlock.

Even without legilimency, the meaning of the facial tick was plain to Sherlock: what are you doing here?

What was Sherlock doing there? What was he doing?

He had not helped solve the case. He had not even come in time. If it had not been for the wizards, there had been no chance that Sherlock would have rescued his beloved. He had failed the personal quest he had set for himself. Did Harry know that? Had he seen right to the core of Sherlock and figured it out?

To be sure, Sherlock's deductions were real. They were often (he had computed it once to about 96%) accurate. But in this moment, seeing Harry alive and hugging Hermione, Sherlock felt more like a fraud than he ever did before.

Sherlock stayed back to the periphery of the cell. Not an easy feat, considering the room was tiny. Before Harry could come closer to him to offer him a handshake, or anything more intimate, Sherlock cut him off with a nod. Harry lurched a bit, and then, picking up on Sherlock's distance, nodded back at the detective.

They only had fifteen minutes. Then, Harry's counselor (which was now officially Hermione) could stay on to speak with him at length, but everyone else had to go. Sherlock thought the time limit was absurdly short, and had steeled himself for it going by in a blink. Instead, the fifteen minutes moved on in a languorous, tortured way; slow and awkward.

Harry couldn't believe his eyes.

He had thought, for sure, that any minute a dementor would swoop into his holding cell to finish the job. After the aurors had finished interrogating him, which Harry made very easy for them, spilling pretty much everything that had happened since he rescued Snape (leaving out Snape's rescue, to be sure, and of course, the aurors did not even ask about this, not suspecting he might have been the one that sprung the old Professor free), thay had seemed satisfied, and barely broached the matter of the murders in '99. That had settled it in Harry's mind. They were not going to look into it. Which meant he was still the deranged murdering lunatic, and a dementor ought to pop by any minute now…

Instead, Hermione, Ron, and Sherlock burst into his cell and Harry couldn't suppress the full grin. He hugged Hermione and then turned to Sherlock. The muggle detective's face was cold, blank, completely unreadable. What was he doing here? The last time Harry had seen him, Sherlock was rather angry with him. Had that all fallen by the wayside? Harry was just about to cross his absurdly small cell to… he didn't know, probably embrace Sherlock, maybe risk a kiss on the muggle's cheek, when Sherlock arrested him with a curt nod.

Harry faltered. Did Sherlock not want him any nearer? Perhaps Sherlock did not want any displays of affection in front of an audience, even if it was just Ron and Hermione?

Nod back, idiot! Harry did so, taken aback. He kept glancing Sherlock's way to see if the cold facade of his face had broken, given anything away. But Sherlock remained still, and aloof. Harry swallowed his discomfort down. Surely, the thing between him and Sherlock, and whether it was truly dead as it appeared to him now, was not his biggest worry. Dementors, remember? Potential execution? Right. He ought to focus.

"Welcome back!" Ron said and Harry looked down. It took some adjusting to Ron's new stature.

"Are you like this… from now on?" Harry vaguely pointed to the wheelchair.

"Nah, the healer said I should be up and about eventually. Might take a few months, but we'll get there..."

"Well, you look like crap in general." Harry added, with a helpful tone. What was he doing? Harry wanted to eat the words that had just come from his mouth. Maybe he could pretend he never said them. He had not seen Ron in more than a decade, and he was… insulting him? The best Harry could explain it to himself was that there was a teenage version of himself that was somehow dislodged upon seeing Ron again, and this self somehow had the idea that the way to repair whatever was between him and Ron was by mocking his old friend.

Well, anyway, it seemed to work. A huge grin spread on Ron's face.

"Oh, forgive me for not being at my most attractive. I hope you can look past my fragile exterior, to see the man that cares for you underneath." Ron put on a mockingly grim expression, holding his hand to his heart. "How is it that you don't look like warmed over dung? I would've thought being on the run from every law abiding citizen in England would have taken its toll."

"I holed up in empty houses and watched muggle telly. It wasn't a decade of suffering, or anything. More like...early retirement."

"Doesn't sound bad..." Ron said.

"Wasn't bad at all. Very peaceful." Harry nodded.

"I hope you're done with all that being at peace, because the Prophet's going to stage a circus now, with you in the center ring." Ron said.

"Lovely." Harry chuckled.

Then, the grin slipped from Ron's face, and Harry swallowed down something hard and bitter in his throat. Harry wasn't sure what to say, now. It took a few beats of silence, for Ron to start speaking again.

"Harry, I'm sorry. For everything. I don't even know what I can say." Ron said.

"No, don't. It's...it's all fine. There's nothing to be sorry for." Harry rushed to cut this off.

"How about not realizing that last time you were facing a trial, you were so far off your rocker it was somewhere in the vicinity of Jupiter's orbit?" Ron added.

"Oh, well, do be sorry for that, because that was a huge oversight on your part." Harry chuckled, his tone back to the light joking. He couldn't believe it. He hadn't seen Ron in years, hadn't seen him properly and sanely, since they left him alone in that tent. And it was so easy to get back to their easy banter. He had missed Ron.

"I know! You were playing chess with a house elf. I should have known right away." Ron added, referring to what Harry thought were the times they must have visited him in Grimmauld Place. Harry wished he could remember any of this. How must he have seemed to his friends?

"That is the established first sign of madness." Harry added wisely.

"Are you going to let me apologize or not?" Ron said.

"For what Ron, there's nothing to apologize for." Harry added quickly.

"For leaving you!" The words burst out of Ron, "And taking Hermione with me." Ron's face contorted, all the lightness gone in a flash, his smile twisting into a grimace of pain.

"Ron, listen, it's the same thing I told Hermione. Not a month after you left, I was captured. If you were there with me, either of you, they would have killed you." Harry rushed to stop this, to console Ron somehow. There wasn't any point to it, he knew. It was over and done with, many years ago, now.

"Then I should have died! There with you, in those dungeons, together!"

"I didn't die in the dungeons, though, yeah? Just kept living, like always?" Harry was hoping to return their conversation back to light and humor, but Ron wasn't done yet.

"I swore to stay with you, and I didn't. You were my best friend, and I betrayed you. I'm no better than Pettigrew..."

"That's a bit far, I'd say." Harry said.

"It's not. I've never forgiven myself, Harry. I never will, either." Ron finished. Harry took a deep breath.

"Alright, yes, when you first left, I was a little ticked off at you." Harry said, carefully gauging Ron's expression, "Mostly for taking Hermione. You know very well that we're both less than useless without her." Ron chuckled at this, and Harry thought he must be heading in the right direction. "The point is I forgave you, ages ago. It wasn't much to forgive, and it was easy..."

"I missed being friends with you." Ron finally said and Harry took Ron's hand.

"I'd hug you, but from this angle, I think I might have to sit on you or something." Harry added

"And what, my knees aren't good enough for you, Potter?"

Time was up, and Sherlock followed Ron Weasley out of the small holding cell, leaving Hermione and Harry alone.

Sherlock kept glancing back at the now shut door. He had not even said anything to Harry, just stood in the corner, dumb and mute.

Why?

Because this is not your world, is it?

No it's not. What had Sherlock really hoped to contribute.

"C'mon mate, I'll take you home." Ron's chummy voice came from below. Sherlock nodded, without hearing. Ron was in a good mood. No doubt, having his old friend forgive him was having a buoyant effect on the man's psyche.

But Sherlock had to help, somehow. Even if it wasn't his world, even if he could do very little, he had to help. How would Harry know how much SHerlock cared, if he didn't at least prove himself useful to the most deciding even in the wizard's life?

As he mindlessly plodded after Ron through the ministry, he set his mind to solve this riddle. How to help? What could he do from the muggle world?

By the time they were outside of the ministry (Ron's wheelchair became just an ordinary wheelchair when they stepped out into the muggle world), Sherlock was coming to the conclusion that he knew how to help but it would be unpleasant, not to mention humiliating, for Sherlock.

"The coast is clear, grab hold." Ron said, intent on apparting Sherlock. They stood in an alley, and indeed no one was in sight.

"Actually," Sherlock started, the unpleasant prospect of what he was about to do turning his face into a grimace, "I've got somewhere in London I have to get to. I'll just take a cab."

Ron looked up at him. "You sure? I could still take you there, just let me know where you're heading."

As amusing as the prospect of having a wizard apparate him into the silence of the Diogenes club was, Sherlock thought he ought not to infuriate Mycroft before asking for his assistance.

"No, it's quite alright. I'll manage." Sherlock answered.

Ron shrugged. "Right then. See ya!" He apparated away, and Sherlock walked to the nearest cross street.

God, Mycroft would never let him live this one down.